One nurse or another came often, but some of the time the small patient was alone. Once he went to sleep, and awoke to see Polly at his side, a big yellow chrysanthemum in her hand.
“How beautiful!” he smiled.
“I hoped you would like it. It is almost as good as the sun,” she laughed. “That will be gone before long, but this will stay.” She put it into his hand.
“Is it for me?” he asked in surprise.
“Certainly. A girl gave it to me at school, and I said, ‘Now I have something to carry to Doodles!’”
“I don’t see why you should think of me,” he said musingly.
“Because lie-abed folks need to be thought of more than run-about folks, and besides—I like you!” She laughed, and skipped away.
At the tea hour came a cup of bouillon—that was all. Suddenly Doodles understood. He remembered hearing a woman tell Granny, while his mother was at the hospital, that when she had her operation they gave her nothing to eat for a whole day beforehand,—nothing but beef tea and mutton broth. Yes, that was it! It made the morrow seem nearer. Then he began again to think of what the other woman, Mrs. Corrigan, had said, the dreadful thing that had haunted him ever since. He could not finish his supper.
The room grew dusky. Even the golden chrysanthemum could not brighten the blackness. He thought of the kitchen at home and wished he were there. Of course, he wanted to walk; but, oh, if Mrs. Corrigan hadn’t said it! He closed his eyes, and repeated his evening prayer, trying to trust everything to the One who he now felt sure was answering his petitions; but—he could see the woman, just as she had stood against the dim hallway, hands on her hips; he could see the horror in her face, the uprolled eyes, as she told about it! He turned his face to the pillow, yet he could not shut her out.
Presently a new nurse appeared, and put a little thermometer under his tongue and timed his pulse by her watch. When she went away she told him to go to sleep.